


With breast-bone broken

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Songs of the New World [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Sex, Angst, Finwian dramamonsters, M/M, PTSD, Self flagellation (not literal), Thangorodrim fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1882161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither of them have a choice.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	With breast-bone broken

He tells himself he goes to heal the rift between their sundered houses. 

He tells himself he goes to defy the might of Morgoth, and to restore hope to the Noldor. 

He tells himself he goes because if even one ruined soul can be saved, then the deed will be worthy. 

He’ll even admit that perhaps he goes to prove the Grinding Ice has not beaten him; has not defeated him; has not changed him; has not made him indifferent. 

But truly, he goes because not a fiber in his body could have done otherwise. 

- 

Maedhros wakes to the world shifting beneath him, and familiar arms around him. They are leaner arms than he remembers, scarred and sinewy, that familiar golden-brown skin weather-beaten and streaked with dirt, but he knows them. Even covered in blood. 

 _Whose?_ he wonders vaguely, but doesn’t have the energy to speak. 

It is then that he realizes that there is a voice, to go with the arms, a well-remembered and beloved voice, fractured and sorrowing, but he knows it. 

“…do you remember the gardens, Maitimo? Do you remember the smell of honeysuckle, and the field of goldenrod? I’d drift off with my head in your lap, and you’d tell me stories and I’d dream of the glories we’d achieve…” The voice falters, and the arms hold him tighter. 

“Do you remember that night, Maitimo? That last night in Tirion, when you climbed to my window. It was so hot, but we couldn’t stop touching each other, and you promised – you promised me – ”

“A glacier,” says Maedhros, his voice like gravel. 

The voice stills, and then cracked lips press against his brow. “You remember.” 

“Always.” Maedhros is shaking now, tremors racking his body, but he has to speak. “I thought of it, after.” It had been memories of Valinor, of hot summer nights and glorious days at Fingon’s side in the light of the Trees, that had kept him alive, if not sane, as he’d hung there, dying by inches. The memories had taken him away from the cliff, if not from the guilt. “In the end, I did – I did grant you the ice, after all.” Hot tears flood from his eyes, burning stinging paths down his cheeks. It has been so long since he’s wept. 

“Hush,” whispers Fingon. “Not now, Maitimo, it doesn’t matter, just stay with me and hold on. We’ll get you – ” 

“I didn’t know,” Maedhros gasps against Fingon’s breast. “I didn’t _know_. I wanted to wait, I wanted to go back for you, but then – then they were burning, and I couldn’t-” Dry sobs are wrenching themselves from his chest now, and in his weakened state it feels as though his chest will rip asunder. 

“Oh, Maitimo. My love,” Fingon’s arms are like iron around him, and he can feel hot tears not his own falling on his upturned face. “I would have come anyway. Not the Grinding Ice, not the flames at Losgar, not Thangorodrim could keep me from you.” 

Maedhros smiles, weakly. “Ever my valiant Findekáno.” He is so cold, and pain is cutting in at the edges of his shock and numbness. “I can’t…I think my arm is broken…” 

Fingon gives a laugh that breaks on a sob. “It is worse than that, beloved, but just hold on. I’m going to put you back together again.” 

Maedhros closes his eyes, letting unconsciousness claim him. He knows that he is fractured in so many places he might never be whole again. But if anyone can put him back together again, it will be Fingon. 

- 

It is not, of course, that easy. 

Maedhros cannot be made whole again, no more so can the Noldor, but he is at least determined to do what he can on that front. 

His brothers rage, and Celegorm pushes him against a wall and threatens to strike him, and Caranthir stares him down with those black eyes and calls him _coward_ and _traitor_ , and Curufin turns on him, whip-like, their father’s ghost in every line of his face, and whispers, “It is for him you are doing this, is it not, _Nelyafinwë_? You whore out our birthright for his lips on your cock and his whisper in your ears. Do not speak to me of politics and atonement; I know why you do this. _Do not lie to me_.” 

But Maglor stands at his side and when Celegorm’s fist raises, Maglor throws him back and snaps, “ _Enough_.” He turns his burning gaze on Caranthir, and on Curufin, and remarkably, they back away, bend their proud necks, and Maedhros looks in wonder at his younger brother and thinks, _Indeed, he knows what is to rule, even briefly. Perhaps he would have done wisely by our people had I not returned._  

And the thought of death returns, and a flare of resentment that Fingon had not slain him, removed him from the suffering, and from the guilt, and responsibility, and the bloody, bloody politics…. 

But he straightens instead, and lays an appreciative hand on Maglor’s shoulder, before realizing that hand is no longer there. To his credit, Maglor keeps the horror from his face, and does not flinch away. 

“This is my choice,” Maedhros says, his voice quiet and still rough-hewn from lack of use. “The crown is my right, and with it my prerogative. And I do what I believe the best for our people.” 

And he will hear no more from them after, though Celegorm turns bitterly away, and Caranthir spits at the sound of Fingolfin’s name. Curufin just watches him, coldly, with their father’s eyes. 

Amrod does not speak; he has not done so since Losgar. 

- 

They are not the same as they once were.

This is, of course, only to be expected, but the pain is none the less piercing. 

Fingon is at his side as much as he can be, in those early days, but as Maedhros regains his strength and returns to the business of being his father’s heir, he notices that Fingon retreats. 

There is something changed in Fingon: a wariness in his eyes, a set to his jaw, a hard edge to that familiar laugh, and Maedhros wants to ask, but can’t. 

 _What have you endured, because of me?_

At night, lying beside Fingon, not quite touching, he longs to turn to him, to pull him close as he used to and breathe in the scent of his skin and hair, to kiss him breathless, to take him as he used to. 

But instead, he asks about the ice. 

And Fingon looks at him, eyes dark and mirthless and spits out, “Why, Maitimo? Do you really care to know, or is this just another knotted cord with which to flagellate yourself? Do you want to know the details of how we suffered, so you can more effectively be a martyr to your guilt?” 

“No, Finno, I only – ” 

But Fingon is sitting upright now, glowering down at him, and Maedhros sees him suddenly as he must appear in battle. 

“I’ll tell you then, shall I, of the bodies of our dead? The children I left frozen to the ice? My brother’s wife, my niece’s mother, crushed in the darkness, and how I had to force Turukáno to stay alive? Shall I tell you of how some went mad from the incessant wailing of the wind, and threw themselves into the dark water or starved themselves to death in the long night? Shall I tell you of the loneliness, and the grief, and how I craved another’s touch because all I could think of was you, you murderous bastard, and I needed – I needed – ” He stops, his breath choking, his eyes bright. 

“Yes,” says Maedhros. “Tell me.” 

But Fingon turns away, and when Maedhros reaches for him he slides from the bed and leaves, never looking back. 

- 

When he returns, seven days later, it is past midnight. 

Maedhros is awake; he hardly sleeps, these days. He looks up to see Fingon framed in the doorway, and he lifts his head and says, “Findekáno.” 

Fingon doesn’t speak, but bears him down to the bed, kissing him fiercely and tearing the clothes from their bodies. Maedhros yields beneath him, letting Fingon savage his neck with tongue and teeth, spreads his legs and lets Fingon slide between them with a groan that is almost a sob. 

It is rough, needy sex, but when at last Maedhros’ breath comes faster and he clutches at Fingon’s shoulders, Fingon pulls back and whispers, “Easy, easy. I’ve got you,” and Maedhros buries his face in Fingon’s hair and cries out as he comes. 

His body feels still and heavy after, his head pillowed on Fingon’s shoulder, Fingon’s fingers stroking lightly through his close-cropped hair. “I don’t sleep for the dreams either,” says Fingon, quietly. 

Maedhros doesn’t respond, not wanting to compete for the horror of their nightmares. 

Instead, Fingon says, “This is so _stupid_. You realize you’ve made me next in line to the throne, don’t you? And what a king I’ll make, eh?” 

Maedhros smiles. “A great one.” 

Fingon hits him with a pillow, and says, “This is a right cock-up you’ve gotten us into, you know.” He swipes at him again, and Maedhros seizes his hand and fights him off, and laughs, until the tears run down his cheeks. 

“None of this was supposed to happen,” he says, a little while later, as Fingon traces the scars that crisscross his torso. “It is all too ridiculous.” 

“Mm.” Fingon presses a kiss to his breast. “Fëanorians are always ridiculous. I’ve told you that for years. Will you be able to sleep, now?” He looks up from the scar across Maedhros’ ribs. 

“If you are here.” 

Fingon nods, and wraps himself close, and for that one night, Maedhros sleeps without dreams. 

- 

Maedhros endures, because to give up would be selfish and wasteful, and he would deny Morgoth that pleasure. 

He abdicates the crown, for the good of his people. 

He removes himself and his brothers to the far reaches of Middle Earth, to keep it safe from their oath. 

But if he is truly honest with himself, he does it all and lives on, for one person and one person alone.

Because not a fiber in his body would allow him to do otherwise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. I'm going with the convention of using their Sindarized names once they're in Middle Earth, though I'm assuming they haven't gotten used to calling each other by those names quite yet.  
> 1\. ETA, 5.1.15: So this was one of my earliest stories, and since then my headcanons and perceptions of this incident have changed a lot. Namely, I now have a much clearer picture of what Maedhros suffered in Angband, and a much stronger idea of what his trauma would look like - physically and mentally - afterward. If I wrote this story now, I would write his and Fingon's physical relationship, and how that began (or didn't) again, very, very differently. Basically I think there's no way their physical interaction would happen like it does in the second to last scene. I don't think Fingon would let his own sense of betrayal and anger overpower his concern for Maedhros' physical and emotional state, and I don't think it would be so easy for Maedhros to be physically intimate that soon after his ordeal.   
> For a while now, this story has bothered me for these reasons. I've considered rewriting it, or straight out taking it down, but I've decided to leave it up, with this note. It is how I envisioned it at one point; I shall leave it at that. I may rewrite or remix this at some point to more accurately reflect my headcanons, but it's not something I feel moved to do at this point.  
> 2\. A more accurate depiction of what I think Maedhros endured and had to deal with in the aftermath can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2206467).


End file.
